Bethany woke up. Unable to lift her head from the pillow, she stared at the ceiling, high above. The single light bulb swung in a draught she couldn’t feel. Her arms were too heavy to ease her off the thin mattress, her skull throbbed, and her thoughts were swimming. This wasn’t her bedroom.
Where was Dad? Now she was wide awake, unable to ignore this alien world.
She was only able to look at the ceiling that she didn’t recognise. This ceiling. A hospital? She shivered. She was naked under a thin blanket, lying on a hard mattress on a concrete floor. Using every bit of energy she had, she tried to lift one hand. The other hand came up too. A thin rope bound her wrists. Another, tighter, bound her ankles.
She wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.
That confused her. She tried to think back to a solid memory. Waving at Paul. Walking through the park. Then what happened?
A voice in the bushes. Faces she thought she knew.
The pale, emotionless face of the young desk constable greeted Caplan as she walked in the door of the station. He had more than a fleeting semblance to Christopher Lee’s Dracula, and his android approach to the job made her yearn for the laid-back efficiency of Jackson, a man who either knew everybody, or would know somebody who knew somebody.
Constable Stewart shouted from behind his screen. He didn’t shout to her or at her, he simply shouted. There were two messages. One was a number, with the name Irene Kennedy in brackets after it. She read the other as she buzzed herself through the door. Call Rory Ghillies as soon as possible. It was very important. Was he already aware of the conversation they’d had with Rachel? She sent off a message to Linden and Fergusson on the group chat: had Ghillies been trying to get in touch with them?
No, he hadn’t.
That piqued her curiosity.
Walking through the incident room to her office, she punched out the mobile number. She saw Toni Mackie sitting in the opposite corner by the window, her hand on the side of her face, which might have been her fixing her hair, or cupping her ear in an attempt to hear McPhee’s private conversation. It was getting on for four o’clock. Her phone call went straight to voicemail. He might be at the hospice for afternoon visiting. She left a message that was interrupted by her desk phone ringing. Ghillies calling back already?
It was Ryce, the pathologist. After a few sarcastic comments about how Caplan’s day was going, she complained about how busy the DCI was keeping the post-mortem suite at the hospital, and would it be easier if she too moved lock, stock and barrel up to Loch Lomond. Anyway, her voice dropped, becoming serious, she was holding back on the Rod and Todd deaths, scheduling them in for later in the week as she wasn’t sure that all the medical history was intact.
Caplan asked, ‘Do you suspect something?’
‘First rule of the forensic pathologist; make sure you have the right guy on the slab. The body on the slab is Roderick Taylor. He looks well nourished, he has no sign of any long-term medical intervention so I’m keen to see what malignancy he was suffering from. Or it is my subconscious bias of years of seeing patients who have been through the treadmill of chemo and radio, showing evidence of surgeries. The usual stuff. I know you have anecdotal evidence of terminal cancer, but, apart from being dead, the subject on the slab tells me a different story. Also, there’s no record of any cancer on his medical file, but that could be a record-keeping error. I’ll collate all his notes before we look inside. But, more interestingly? Your naked man at the bottom of the hill? Glen Douglas?’
‘No, we don’t have an ID. Do you?’ asked Caplan.
‘Is he not called Glen Douglas? That’s what it says here.’
‘No, that’s where he was found.’
‘It’s typed in here under “name of deceased”.’
‘Okay, we are understaffed and overtired. We’ll keep that little error to ourselves. Are we any closer to finding his real name?’
‘Nope, we thought we had his real name. Brady put a rush on his DNA, no doubt leaned on by the MoD, and he’s not on the database on any interim search. Which means he’s never been convicted of a crime in Scotland, or maybe his details have been logged incorrectly.’
‘I’m sure it does happen,’ said Caplan guardedly, suspecting there was more to come, and it wouldn’t be good.
‘His blood chemistry is off the scale. “Dead-in-Bed Syndrome”, which is a vague term for any person with diabetes who is presumed dead from hypoglycaemia. His vitreous humour’s also abnormal. We’ve asked for microscopy on kidney tissue samples …’
‘And?’
‘A young healthy male with type 1 diabetes has a fatal hypoglycaemic attack? I’m not buying it. I think he was a well-controlled diabetic for a while and then it looks like he stopped eating, or there was an issue with his insulin.’
‘And?’ repeated Caplan.
‘If the latter, he’d get to his GP, the hospital, whatever. If the former, then it might be some innocent malarky, maybe out with folk who didn’t realise. They were partying. He’d be behaving like he was drunk. That’d be what you’d think if you didn’t know. Then he’d fall asleep and not wake up. Given the distance, and the clean feet, my conclusion is that he was dumped here. And, this is kicker number one, he has a nasty injury to his left leg that was cooking up a nice infection. Kicker number two are the signs of him having something round his wrist, and something tighter on his ankles, on both sides. Bound in some way, kept against his will? And his stomach was totally empty. That’s not normal for a careful diabetic. Like I said, I’d suspect his feet to bear some lesions from walking up a hill like that, but the skin on his feet is clean. Either he took his shoes off when he finally lay down and we’ve not found them, or somebody carried him up there. But, mainly, and most importantly, he does have his head and face caved in. And I suspect that was post-mortem, no vital response.’
‘Okay,’ Caplan said slowly.
‘For belt and braces you could send somebody up there to look at the rocks he might have fallen from, looking for tissue from head trauma. But I doubt you’ll find anything – it was the blunt instrument that did the damage. And …’
‘God, is there more?’
‘He’s not clean. By that I mean he’s dirty, not that he’s had a drug problem. He has dirty fingernails and feet, natal clef – bum crack to you – and dirty armpits etc. He’s been a stranger to personal hygiene for a while, maybe a recently homeless diabetic man in his early twenties. No tattoos, no identifiable marks. Homeless very recently though. He has had some pretty impressive and expensive dental work done. Veneers like that cost a fortune. They are understated, no Turkey teeth for him, but the upper canine left is missing, not extracted by somebody with a dental degree. But recently, he’s had no access to soap and water. Mental health issue? Was dead but somebody clubbed him over the head anyway? I’m confused. We need more to go on.’ She heard Ryce sigh. ‘And the lack of ID is in itself unusual in today’s electronic world. Everybody is somewhere except for this young man who has been …’ she paused, ‘. . . elsewhere?’
‘Spyck was saying something about a TikTok challenge?’
Ryce shook her head. ‘I can see why she thought that, but no. We’ve had a spate of death by stupidity. Beating the train on the level crossing tends to go spectacularly badly. Two fatal cases of eating chilli peppers without drinking. I might have been bored as a teenager, but I’d bop about the bedroom listening to Pulp, rather than play Russian roulette with the 5.20 to Glasgow Central. Mr Glen Douglas: summary so far? Wrist marks suggest held against his will. Fractured fibula on left, canine tooth extracted on left. Starved, died. Then some attempt to smash his facial features to delay ID.’ There was a respectful pause while they both reflected on what hell this young man had gone through. Then Ryce’s voice moved into sarcastic mode. ‘Do you have a roof yet?’
After hanging up, Caplan sat behind her desk, knowing that she was looking for a reason to delay joining Aklen, Emma and anybody else who was there. Maybe have a quick chat with Craigo before she went, make sure he was up to speed on Rod Taylor and the body from Glen Douglas.
Her phone went. Ghillies, his voice echoing around as if he was calling from a barn as he greeted her like a long-lost friend, explaining that he was sorry he had missed her call. He’d been at the golf club and was about to head out to the hospice. She asked how Rachel was doing.
There was a pause. The voice became sombre. Caplan knew what that was like, taking a bright spot in the day and then somebody bangs you back down to earth.
‘Well at this point, the only turns in the road are going to be downward, but we take the positives where we can. She had a good night, and that’s the best that can be expected. She was excited at the thought of you and the girls coming in to see her.’
The girls? Not condescending, not flattering, merely friendly. The voice was rather attractive, well-spoken and engaging. Ghillies had moved in circles one level higher than Linden. The thought crossed Caplan’s mind again about why Linden had been close to the hospice yesterday, but had, in effect, waited outside.
Guilt?
‘We had a good chat.’
‘Oh yes, she was very pleased you’d taken the time to visit.’
‘It was nothing,’ lied Caplan.
‘But you’re here now, aren’t you, up near Cronchie? You’re a very busy police officer. I know what your workload’s like in Major Incident. You took time out to see an old friend, and I’m very grateful that you did.’
‘It was nice to see her, despite the circumstances.’ Caplan wondered what Ghillies was actually getting at, and how long it was going to take him to get to the point. As he himself had said, she was busy.
‘No doubt she was talking about her obsession, the Nicholson bloke. She’s been going on about that for years.’
‘Really?’ Caplan hoped she sounded as if she had no interest, but with Ghillies she was dealing with a retired cop and there would be no fooling him.
‘I’m really phoning to ask a favour. It’s a bit awkward as I’m ex-job but a friend of mine, a good friend of mine, has been in touch; his daughter, Bethany Robertson, has gone missing. Nice kid, twenty-one, something like that, not vulnerable.’ She was aware of his police speak. ‘But it’s not like her. I feel responsible as she was last seen at the Revolve Centre. It was me who got her a position volunteering there.’
‘In Oban?’
‘Yes, you know it?’
‘It’s a halfway house for those coming out of care. The last of the big houses on the promenade. The police in Oban know it well.’
‘Oh, God, aye! The council are always trying to close it down because they see it as a public nuisance. I’m on the board there and got Beth a volunteer post when she was off uni last year. She didn’t come home this afternoon. Her dad is very worried. I was round at their house last night and everything was fine, she was her usual self.’
Caplan knew where this was going. ‘And you want me to do a phone round? She’s an adult and a few hours isn’t a “missing person”.’
‘I know that, Christine. Bill’s a lovely bloke. His wife walked out the front door and died very suddenly, a year ago, maybe two years ago. I think he’s called every hospital twice now.’ The line went quiet with some reflection. ‘You can understand why he’s twitchy. I was thinking maybe DC Fergusson, she’s on the wire but I don’t have her contact details. Bill’s called Oban, but there’s nothing they can do. I thought I’d try you.’
Caplan kept her voice light. ‘I’m sure she won’t like it if she’s stayed out for a cuppa with her hunky new boyfriend and her dad has the cops circulating her description. I know teenagers, I know what they get up to.’
‘Beth doesn’t have a boyfriend, but you’ll appreciate that there’s not a student on this earth that has their phone off for four hours. I’m worried about her.’
‘Okay. I’m presuming that there are no red flags, no issues at home that might have made her run?’
A pause. ‘No.’
‘I need to know the facts please, Mr Ghillies.’
‘Call me Rory. It’s just that Beth’s got friendly with a girl called Shivonne McDougall.’ He spelled the name out. ‘She’s a service user, not a volunteer. The staff don’t know where she is either.’
‘So, they are together, having a good time?’
‘No, I doubt it. The manager said they left together, but Beth was heading home and the other girl was going to the pub. The Shivonne girl is trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘She has a record. I got an old colleague to check when she befriended Bethany. They don’t end up at the Revolve for being citizen of the year.’
‘Okay, I’ll bear that in mind. Lizzie’s off duty but I’ll get somebody to do a welfare check on Bethany. Can you send me her details, her dad’s contact details and a reasonable photograph? I’ll text you my email address. Is this a good number to get you on?’
‘Yes. Really can’t thank you enough, Christine.’
She swiped her phone closed and texted her email address then waited for the information to come through. It was odd but it made sense, she supposed. Ghillies might be aware that Bethany was living a life she didn’t want her dad to know about, and after this afternoon he had elevated Caplan to ‘friend’. She was still on the job, a useful contact. Her phone pinged: Bethany Elspeth Robertson, date of birth 09 01 2002. Then a photograph arrived, a slightly odd picture, a side view of the subject. It looked like a surveillance photograph. It showed a young, slightly built woman. Pale-faced, maybe with a few freckles on the exposed cheek, with an explosion of auburn corkscrew hair held back from her face with a yellow headband. Her outfit was typical student: a denim jacket, a blue rucksack over her shoulder with a furry brown and white toy hanging from it. The lower half of her legs were obscured by the garden wall. Caplan tilted the phone screen, noticing little flashes of light.
The picture had been taken through glass.
She looked at her watch, then texted Aklen to see if the visitors had arrived. He replied straight away that yes, they had, but the wee black and white kitten, Moe, had gone missing and they were looking for it. She replied saying that she’d be back ASAP, hoping that they wouldn’t find wee Moe’s entrails discarded after the falcon had feasted.
From the sound of it Mackie was back, talking to McPhee, who still had his jacket on, still holding a file. She was interrogating the poor bloke on his new girlie. Caplan thought that Mackie had never had much of a love life. She was one of the lads, had plenty of male friends, and most of the men wanted to keep it that way.
As Caplan walked into the incident room, she heard McPhee trying to get off the phone without being the last to say ‘I love you’.
Mackie drew her finger across her throat, telling him to quit it.
McPhee ended the call, threw his mobile in his drawer and slammed it shut, glaring at Mackie.
‘God, you’ve become a right cheery wee bastard since you met Carrycot,’ she muttered, loud enough for all to hear.
‘Her name is Carrie-Louise,’ McPhee retorted, devoid of his usual good humour.
‘Was she actually christened that? Or did she win the name in a cracker?’
‘Better than bloody Toni with an I.’
‘I use less ink.’
‘Okay, if we can step out the playpen for a moment and have a look at the board, please,’ instructed Caplan.
Craigo had elevated the Rod and Todd house to a crime scene, with a printout of a picture of two cartoon characters at the top.
She decided that question could wait, and updated them in a minute flat before calling Mackie through to the office. Her colleague sat opposite her, chubby legs crossed, a wire-bound pad on her knee, a pen ready, her jumper hanging off one shoulder. Caplan instructed her, or McPhee, to do another trawl for the Glen Douglas body on the misper list, and if there was nothing there to start the laborious searching for a diabetic who wasn’t picking up their medication.
‘That might take time to come to light if they had just picked up a scrip. I could check with his GP.’
‘If we knew who his GP was, then we’d know who he was.’ Caplan gave her constable a comedy eye roll.
‘Sorry, getting carried away with Callum and his latest squeeze, Carrie-Louise. That rhymes, you know. Have you seen her?’
‘She almost bumped into me, literally. I wonder how well the guys in traffic know her – she drives like a maniac.’
Mackie, unusually, wasn’t keen to offer an opinion. ‘How was your visit to the hospital? Your friend? Did she pass away? Hubby was on the blower bloody quick.’
‘Rachel is comfortable, and Rory Ghillies was asking a favour. In fact, if the Glen Douglas search gets stalled then can you do a trawl on Rachel Ghillies’s career? DC in Glasgow. Any deceased, unsolved, first or last name Nicholas or Nicholson. Any unsolved deaths that sound like that. Words “hardman” or “straight man”.’
‘Do you know what division she was with?’
‘No idea.’
‘You could ask her man. He asked a favour of you?’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Caplan. ‘Not yet.’
‘Was this her fancy man, this Nick?’
Caplan closed her eyes and sighed. ‘More likely a case that she was involved with.’
‘Okay, I’d get McPhee to act on Glen Douglas but I think he’s too knackered to do anything, ma’am. He’s been at the shagging all night, I can tell.’ Mackie took one look at Caplan’s stone face. ‘And he’s steering a couple of constables through some housebreaking, then preparing something for court. He’s checking something out for Craigo, about those two dead men. But mostly he’s staring at his phone, looking at her selfies of her pout, well I hope it’s her pout and nothing more gynaecological. He’s love-struck. Have you seen his black eye?’
‘I did notice it, yes.’
‘It must be love if she can put up with that daft article. He slipped getting out of the shower this morning. Being half asleep and having a slippery floor is more than he can cope with, and his face hit the wall at great speed.’
‘It looks bloody sore.’
‘I hope it is, might teach him some sense. Anyway, should you not be at home, ma’am? I thought Emma was coming over.’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘She bringing that gangly, veggie freak with her?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘Well, if you are going to fall for a gangly, veggie freak, she’s right to fall for a millionaire gangly, veggie freak.’ Mackie went to stand up, then changed her mind. ‘Ma’am. Are you a bit concerned about McPhee?’
‘No, I’m concerned about your interest in his love life. Are you his mother?’
‘No.’ Mackie paused as if to calculate something. ‘No.’
‘Don’t be concerned. He’s in love, he’ll get over it.’
‘Not that, ma’am. I know I’ve been taking the piss, but he doesn’t really seem himself. He’s had a headache for about a fortnight. I know he’ll be getting no sleep with all the pumping, too many nights out and going out for nice meals and all that … stuff …’ She sounded very jealous.
‘That’s nice that you care,’ said Caplan, with only a hint of sarcasm.
‘But he’s getting on ma tits with his bloody moaning.’
‘Have you said anything to him?’
‘Kind of. He said something about seeing the doctor. He felt like throwing up earlier. He’s in the bloody toilet more than he’s at his desk.’
‘Toni, I can’t say anything to him unless he says it to me first. Do you think it is affecting his work?’
‘Not any more than usual, ma’am, he’s always a bit slow.’
‘Well, off you hop. Back to work. And can you have a phone round, see if you can find Bethany Elspeth Robertson, age twenty-one? All the usual haunts, last seen about three p.m. this afternoon at the Revolve. You’re not writing any of this down. I’ll check a list of contacts from the dad. It’s not a full on official missing person … yet.’
Mackie let out a long sigh and burped quietly, then looked at the ceiling. ‘Would that be Rosemary Robertson’s daughter? She’d a weird name like Bryony or Beverly. Could have been Bethany.’
‘Yes, you know her?’
‘Know of her. From Pulpit Hill? Her mum’s funeral was the talk of the steamie, ma’am, every bigwig of the parish was there. My aunt went, for the purvey like, said that poor Bryony was like a wee lamb in the headlights. It’s early days for a misper but I’ll track her down.’ Mackie picked up her notepad.
‘Rabbits are in headlights, lambs to slaughter, Mackie. And it’s Bethany. Not Bryony.’
‘Aye, ma’am, but what good did pedantism do anybody?’
‘Pedantry,’ said Caplan, quietly, to the closing door.
Caplan checked her watch. It was after six, time for her to go.
Driving back to the caravan, Caplan listened to The Nutcracker Suite, thinking that it might be a good name for the incident room at Cronchie. She popped into Tesco on the way, bought some dips and crisps, vegan dips and vegetable crisps, some beer and wine. Mineral water for herself and for the joyless Magus.
Turning the final corner onto the coast road, she could see the small, green van parked on the drive opposite to the caravan. There was also a taxi, a blue Skoda Octavia, pulled up alongside.
Caplan parked the Duster and fished the keys to the caravan from the bottom of her rucksack. She got out the car, enjoying the quiet air, the gentle hiss and rush of the waves, the birds in the trees and the noisier seabirds making their presence felt.
Pas was asleep at the caravan window. Pavlova, still a little feral, was in a basket behind the wheel and Caplan checked to see all the kittens were there. The small black and white face, wee Moe, looked out at her. The missing one had been found and returned to his mother. She looked up, landward, into the thick trees that spread across the lower slopes of the ben. The falcons in there would think nothing of taking a tiny kitten. Horrible to think about but it was a fact of life. Death was inevitable and up here it was accepted as such.
The caravan was unlocked. Aklen couldn’t be far away, maybe at the house but round the back. Quickly, she got changed into jeans and a thin jumper. The autumn evening was still warm, even the constant breeze coming in from the sea loch had not yet gained its chilling edge.
She unpacked the car, stacking the groceries into two bags, leaving them near the steps of the caravan. A quick look round the house. The back door was closed and locked. The area behind the house where the grass had been cut had an old kitchen table for picnics. The swing seat was still, protected from the wind by the house, but the yellow cushions were out. Somebody had been sitting there recently.
Caplan considered herself the most rational of people, yet she started thinking about the Marie Celeste and the house where Rod and Todd had lived and died, the house that had remained quiet despite the manpower who were present, trying to tease evidence from the silence.
That whole thing was bloody odd.
A falcon took that moment to start screeching, making Caplan jump. There was a flutter of feathers and the downdraught of air ran over her left cheek as the bird took flight from the house off to the trees. Had it been sitting up in the eaves somewhere, waiting for twilight, waiting for the kittens?
She walked back round the house to the drive then onto the road that swept round this part of the sea loch; one car every two hours was rush hour and the peace was much more likely to be disrupted by the noise of a logging truck or a motor home that had taken a wrong turn. Then there was a scream, followed by a yelling cry, a child in pain.
Instinctively, she ran across the road, swiftly picking her away across the stones that separated the road from the sand. The noise had come to her from her left. She started along the beach to the jagged rocks that formed the north edge of their private bay.
She clambered up, not looking over the top until she got there, ready to rescue whoever needed rescued.
There was a crying child, one she didn’t recognise. A young woman, the mother she presumed, was bending over the girl, making a play of looking at the scraped knee, saying something in a language Caplan didn’t recognise but the body language was uniform. I told you not to climb on that!
She looked over to the rocks that huddled the road, causing a nasty turn that had been the site of more than one accident. Her visitors were sitting there, laughing, eating, drinking, chatting. It crossed Caplan’s mind to reverse back down the rocks and retreat into hiding until she saw her daughter’s face. Emma was watching her dad, concern evident on her face. It appeared she wasn’t convinced he was as well as he wanted her to think. Caplan had suspected that Aklen coming off his medication was wishful thinking.
Caplan turned to look at Aklen. His smile was a little too fixed, the conversation too forced. If she didn’t know him, it would seem all was well.
‘Mum!’ Emma slithered off the rock she was sitting on, the Magus helping her to her feet. She crossed the soft sand, limping slightly as she rushed to greet her mother, still protecting the injury that Caplan herself felt responsible for. Aklen also stood up, as did the two men, one of whom was the Ukrainian builder, with a young boy of three or four in his arms. The other she didn’t know but she deduced was the taxi driver.
Emma gave her a big hug and the rest of them, kids included, stood almost to attention at her arrival. Caplan felt self-conscious in her trousers and jumper, amongst the baseball caps, shirts and T-shirts of everybody else.
Emma led her by the hand up the beach to where the others were. Caplan got the feeling that her mere presence had ruined the party. She wished her phone would ring.
Her phone stayed quiet.
Caplan, because of Aklen, had lived a very quiet life for the last seven years. She’d had the stimulus of some challenging cases but always had ‘home’ to go to, to decompress. As Emma introduced her to her own guests, she wondered if she was experiencing social anxiety; this invasion of her quiet idyll was challenging.
Caplan was polite to them all, and gracious. It was lovely to see her daughter. The Magus, who looked after Emma so well, was engaging Aklen in conversation. She knew Pavel in the way that most women know builders, and his wife and his two children with their reluctant smiles were enchanting. Nobody could know what they had been through to get here, to the wet, windy coast of a dark little country, but it was safe and quiet, a place for their children to grow. Caplan acknowledged all that as Aklen, Pavel and Bob the taxi driver started a skimming stones competition.
She wished Emma had given her more notice of the visit. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have gone near work. But she had known and still made that choice. The day had been long, a lot had happened, and now the evening looked like it was going to stretch into the small hours.
There was nowhere for Caplan to slip away, but she tried, saying she was going back to the caravan for something. Then realised she wasn’t on her own.
‘Christine?’ It was Christopher Allanach, the Magus, wanting a quiet word with her. She braced herself. She owed him so much, her daughter’s health for one thing, yet she couldn’t bring herself to like him.
‘Yes?’
He was a very handsome man, quiet and thoughtful, with the air of a preacher. Or a cult leader, which Caplan thought he was, at heart. The murder of the McGregor family, the incident of their devil stone, had proved it to Caplan beyond doubt. A manipulator is still a manipulator. A charismatic one is the same but much, much more dangerous.
‘I want to reassure you that I’m trying to persuade Emma to go back to university and finish her masters, but I can’t make her do anything that she doesn’t want to do.’
‘Nobody can.’
‘But I’m keen for her to go back. In case you think that I’m trying to prevent it.’
‘Like you say, you’ll never make her do something that she doesn’t want to do.’
‘And to say also that if it wasn’t for you, I’d probably not be here. Those who wanted to inherit my estate weren’t going to wait until I got to a ripe old age.’
In Caplan’s mind the case had closed, other innocent people had died. ‘It was a team effort, it wasn’t only me.’ Caplan knew she was being unfair, her voice was curt, her tone bored.
‘But I’m not a poor man.’
‘Oh, I know that, Mr Allanach.’
And there was that smile, a smile that could force a confidence from the unwary. ‘You don’t trust me?’
‘Being a cynic goes with my job, I’m afraid.’
‘Aklen’s thinking about getting back to driving.’
‘Is he?’ She was so surprised at the news, she forgot to be annoyed. ‘I didn’t know that.’
And that smile again. He knew more about her family than she did. Her dislike of him ramped up a notch. ‘Sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn.’
Caplan doubted it but forced a smile.
‘You need a car. We’ve vehicles on Skone that we don’t use. Not after all that … Anyway, I know Aklen would jump at it, but, well, you know how he’s doing better than I do.’
‘Yes. How much does Emma know about this?’
‘I discussed it with her. She was in agreement. We could give you a van?’ He looked over to where Emma was holding a vegan sausage over the flames of the barbeque.
Caplan caught his profile; his aristocratic cheekbones, the perfect jaw. He had excellent breeding.
He didn’t turn back when he spoke again. ‘I don’t need you to like me, but I do owe you a lot. Probably my life. That’s all.’ And he slowly walked away, limping on his sore knee.
She waited until he was nearly out of earshot before she said, ‘Thank you.’ She’d said it very quietly, but even with the noise of the waves and the chatter, he heard it and turned slightly to raise his hand in acknowledgement.
She stood away from the sounds of their happy conversation which involved translation both ways. They were thinking of adding more wood to the fire. Caplan looked at her watch. She was dog tired and wanted to sleep. Aklen, after years of hiding away from the human race, was suddenly Mr Gregarious and encouraged Bob the taxi man from Cronchie to have another beer. Caplan found herself volunteered to run him back to Cronchie as he was too intoxicated to drive.
In the end the Magus, who they called Mags, with his totally charming and quiet manner, said that was ridiculous and he’d run Bob home. He ran the Ukrainians home as well as they were too tired to walk the length of themselves. As the van was a two-seater, with a small flatbed, the kids and one adult piled on the back to run the gauntlet of a faceful of midges on the way home.
Caplan gave up trying to speak to Emma on her own, thwarted by Aklen, making up for lost time, then by Mags on his return.
In the end, she escaped to her bed. Aklen, Emma and Mags stayed up late, long into the small hours of the morning.
Aklen climbed into bed, still talking nineteen to the dozen about what a nice lad Pavel was, how well Mags looked after Emma, shame that Kenny couldn’t be there but maybe next time they could plan it in advance, maybe Caplan could take the day off … maybe even have a party to help clear up some of the rubble from the house, make it a social occasion. Once they had the roof finished. ‘What do you think?’
Caplan banged her head into the pillow. ‘By the time you get the roof finished, Emma will be a mother of five, Kenny will be in jail, and I’ll be pushing up the daisies.’
‘After suffering from what?’ asked Aklen, playfully tapping the end of her nose with his finger.
‘Lack of sleep.’